


Fairy Lock

by okapi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, COVID-19, Cinderella - Freeform, Coronavirus, Dildos, Drunkenness, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, No bonding, No heat, Omega Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Sex, shelter in place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: While sheltering in 221B because of COVID-19, Omega Sherlock shares a fairy tale-inspired fantasy with Alpha John.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 116
Collections: Dick or Treat - Scrohto Region, Isolated Johnlock Collection, Merry Month of Masturbation 2020





	1. Drunk Sex

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** They are drunk in chapter one. John masturbates for Sherlock, upon request. 
> 
> For 2020 Dick or Treat, 2020 Merry Month of Masturbation (chapter 1 only), and the Isolated Johnlock Collection.

“New books,” announced John happily as he slit open the box. “Just what the doctor ordered—for his own self-quarantine. Four. That should be enough, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock without looking up from his mobile. “Especially since you’re only going to read the same dozen Agatha Christie novels over and over until this nightmare ends.”

John shot Sherlock a look. “Nobody likes a know-it-all, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled. “I know.”

John rolled his eyes. As he studied the books one-by-one, and his face fell.

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock,” he said under his breath. “I ought to be helping.”

“It was your helping that got you exposed, John.”

“Really? I thought it was my flatmate licking a crime scene! I’m not even ill!”

“Yet.”

Their eyes met, and by silent agreement, they dropped the subject.

John carried the books to the shelves, ignoring Sherlock’s admonition of “Do not rearrange any of mine!”

As John attempted to make space for the new additions, his eyes lit on a dark burgundy-coloured spine decorated with gold calligraphy.

“I’ve always wanted ask about this.”

John removed the volume and held it out towards Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t look up. “Illustrated fairy tales.”

“Yeah, I can read.” John turned the book over, studying the back cover, then the front. “It just seems, I don’t know, unusual for you. Everything else,” John scanned the shelves, “makes sense. Law. Science. Criminology. History. This seems out of place. Anomalies are interesting.” He shrugged, then added, “Or so you’re always claiming.”

Sherlock grunted noncommittally.

“Was there once fairy tale serial killer?” mused John aloud. “Before my time, of course, but surely I would’ve heard about it.” He considered. “Maybe not if I was in Afghanistan.”

“Oh, God, I wish!” sighed Sherlock, throwing up his hands and shooting an exasperated glance at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t that be a dream come true? A crime with some imagination!”

John was undeterred. “Then why have you hung on to this book, Sherlock? You don’t keep things that aren’t important. Have you had it since childhood?”

Sherlock snorted. “You really don’t know my methods at all, John.” His voice dripped with disappointment.

John scowled at Sherlock. Then he huffed and opened the book and flipped through the first pages. He hummed and looked at wall, calculating. “The original year of publishing would’ve been your adolescence, but,” he studied the cover and pages, “it looks newer than that. No writing, but it might’ve been a gift from someone you cared about. People keep such things.”

“Sentiment,” agreed Sherlock dryly.

“Right.” John waited. When Sherlock said nothing, he continued, “Well, the illustrations are beautiful, so maybe you just saw it in a shop and liked it.” John shut the book with a soft thud of finality and returned it to the shelf. “Sometimes the correct answer is the simplest one, right?”

“Sometimes.”

Sherlock turned his head and met John’s gaze. The grey of Sherlock’s eyes reminded John of the glossy fur of a well-petted, well-loved, but very temperamental cat. He was lovely, really, even clad in only wrinkled, stained, threadbare pyjamas and an expression of haughty disdain.

But the look he was giving John wasn’t haughty disdain.

John knew the look meant Something. Something with a capital S. So did the book.

John also knew he wasn’t clever (or something) enough to figure it out, so both would remain mysteries…

* * *

…until the port.

“Do you want to open this?” asked John two weeks later. He gripped the bottle by the neck and swung it towards Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. “Why not?”

They ended up on the sofa after dinner, each sitting at one end with their legs tangled in the middle. John was on his second glass, Sherlock, his third. John was re-reading a dog-eared Agatha Christie novel. The books he had purchased two weeks earlier were, as predicted, gathering dust on the shelf where he’d tucked them.

Sherlock was watching something on his mobile.

The silence was cosy and companionable until Sherlock set his mobile on the coffee table beside his glass and said,

“The book.”

“Mm?” John sniffed and turned a page. “Yeah, I really think Miss Marple is on to something here. The village parallel is suggestive of…”

“I mean, the fairy tale book.”

John put down the novel and gave Sherlock his full attention.

“Yeah?”

“I like it.”

The three words seemed to cost Sherlock a lot, so John being John swooped in to reassure.

“Interesting. I like learning new things about you. It’s not unusual, Sherlock. Lots of people, adults, like fairy tales.”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m not ‘lots of people,’ John.”

“Don’t I know it? ‘Lots of people’ don’t keep bags of human thumbs in the vegetable crisper!” John softened. “You are one-of-a-kind, Sherlock. You’re extraordinary, fantastic, etcetera. But, really, there’s nothing shameful about liking a certain kind of story. I like mysteries. Lestrade likes science fiction. Your brother likes history and regards anything written in the last thousand years as ‘journalism.’ People like to read what they like to read. Simple as that.”

Sherlock made a noise. “Do you fantasise about whodunnits, John?”

John grinned. “I don’t have to, love. With you, I’m living the dream.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned a slight pink. He looked away.

John studied Sherlock’s profile, trying to tease out what was going on. To buy himself time, he moved slowly and deliberately, placing his paperback novel open on the floor, draining his glass, getting to his feet, and going to the shelves to retrieve the book in question. Sherlock’s question echoed in his mind.

_“Do you fantasise about whodunnits, John?”_

John leafed through the book on his return to the sofa. He looked up and noticed Sherlock’s glass was empty, too.

“More?”

Sherlock nodded.

_So, we’re getting drunk tonight. Fine by me. Nothing else to do._

John poured. Then he sat down on the edge of the sofa with the book open on the coffee table.

“Sherlock,” John licked his lips and took a deep breath, “even if you took this book to your bed and wanked furiously to Cinders in her ballgown, it would be fine, all fine. It would be…”

“Typical Omega,” spat Sherlock bitterly.

The penny dropped.

_Oh, so that’s what this was about._

John turned his head to look at Sherlock.

It was only the second time in a more than a year that Sherlock had made any reference to his secondary sex. The first time was the day after he and John had met. He’d said relationships weren’t his area, and that he wasn’t looking for an Alpha. John had said that was fine, that it was all fine, and that he wasn’t looking for an Omega, either.

“There’s nothing wrong with fantasising about fairy tales, Sherlock, no matter who you are, but there’s also nothing wrong with being Omega and fantasising about fairy tales. And, it shouldn’t have to be said, but I’ll say it: there’s nothing wrong about being an Omega, full stop.”

Sherlock finally met John’s gaze, and John allowed him to search his expression, his eyes, and whatever else he fancied for signs of prevarication or artifice.

John didn’t move, didn’t even blink, until Sherlock spoke.

“I thought you were lying in the beginning, when you said it didn’t matter, but it doesn’t. It really doesn’t. Or it hasn’t so far,” said Sherlock. He sounded surprised.

One corner of John’s mouth rose. He rubbed the back of his head.

“Sherlock, when I say it doesn’t matter that doesn’t mean I don’t notice. I can’t avoid noticing. You smell…”

“How?” asked Sherlock sharply.

John shrugged. “Good, very good.”

“You do, too, smell good, that is,” admitted Sherlock, and by the fall of Sherlock’s shoulders and the relaxing of his jaw, John sensed the admission was a relief.

“But I’m no more bound by my pheromones than you are, Sherlock. Maybe you like these stories because you’re an Omega. Or maybe you just like them. What does it matter?” John turned his attention back to the book. He flipped through several pages. “Do you have a favourite?”

A long silence followed, then Sherlock said softly,

“Some hold greater appeal than others.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John shot Sherlock a cheeky look. Sherlock blushed, looked away, then glanced back at John, expectantly.

John took a long swig and marshalled his nerve.

“Sherlock, we’re going to be cooped up together for a while. If you ever want to,” John licked his lips, “share your fantasies, well, I’m in. When the world goes back to normal, we can, too. Just chalk it up to cabin fever.” He took another swing. His tone was sober even though he wasn’t. “But I’m not saying this to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t make me feel uncomfortable, John. Quite the opposite. Sometimes, I think I’m too comfortable around you.”

“Oh, that’s just the bedside manner,” said John quickly, then realising the possible interpretation of his words, he stifled a schoolboy snicker. He relaxed when he heard Sherlock’s laughter.

John leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. He looked down at the floor between his feet and shook his head and mumbled, “Sorry. Probably the port talking.”

“Probably. Nevertheless, I’m intrigued by the suggestion.”

“Intrigued?”

“Tempted, if you prefer. Oh, God.” Sherlock sighed. “Do I want to know what I might be getting into?”

Before John’s better judgement could stop him, he was retorting in a low, seductive rumble,

“Do you want to know what might be getting into you?”

He was rewarded by a lightning-swift, breathy reply.

“Show me.”

This was definitely the port. Their little flirtation was threatening to spiral out of control.

John knew what Sherlock was requesting and part of him was all for it, but part of him really didn’t want to ruin whatever he had with Sherlock for a drunken lark.

“Get me some lube and I will.”

It gave Sherlock an out. He could refuse. He could laugh it off. He could stumble down the hall and say he couldn’t find any. Hell, he could flee to his bedroom and slam the door and sleep this whole conversation, this whole night off.

What he did, however, was rise inelegantly, succeeding in getting to his feet only on the second attempt, and sashay towards the loo.

By the time the bottle of lubricant was tossed onto the sofa, John’s jeans and pants were spanning his thighs. He was facing Sherlock’s end of the sofa with one leg bent, his knee on the sofa, and one leg extended, bare foot flat to the floor. He drew vest and jumper over his head and threw them somewhere behind him. Then he reached for the lube.

John promptly forgot every fantasy he’d ever entertained. The rapt expression on Sherlock’s face as he applied the first coat of slick to his cock was everything.

And his cock appreciated it, too, going from half hard to fully erect with one swipe.

John wondered if Sherlock realised that his mouth was hanging open. He hoped not. It was too precious a sight. John wished he had a Mind Palace. He’d have Sherlock’s portrait painted and framed and hung in the main hall and call it, he added with mild amusement, ‘The Omega’s Awakening.’

John began with slow, easy strokes, his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Really, he couldn’t look away if he tried.

Sherlock dropped awkwardly onto the sofa and said in a soft, far-away voice,

“It’s always…gratifying…to have one’s…deductions…confirmed…height…weight…build…and, then, of course…the way you walk…”

John said nothing, but Sherlock’s every word was like a delicious caress.

“Thick,” observed Sherlock.

John gave the base a hard squeeze. Sherlock’s bottom lip disappeared behind his top teeth.

“Don’t,” said John softly. “I want to hear you.”

The bottom lip reappeared at once, and the Alpha found this insanely gratifying.

“Long,” continued Sherlock as John’s hand moved from base to head and back to base.

“Not too long, though,” countered John. “Ceiling-banging is, I imagine, only arousing in the theoretically pornographic.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock’s face crinkled momentarily in what John suspected was an involuntary wince at the thought.

“But given your height, weight, build, and then, of course, the way you walk,” John’s imitation of Sherlock’s voice was tempered by a light smile, “I deduce you’re a deep-sunk bastard, which means this,” he gripped his shaft and groaned, “might fit rather nicely.”

“Perfectly, in fact,” breathed Sherlock.

“And when I do this…” John rolled his hips.

“Oh, God!” Sherlock drew back suddenly, pushing his body farther up the arm of the sofa.

“…I’ll hit that spot, won’t I?”

“Yes!”

“And I’ll hit it over. And over. And over. I promise, Sherlock. I wouldn’t stop until you begged me to stop.”

“Why would I beg you to stop?” Sherlock moaned, and John dropped his gaze to the crotch of Sherlock’s pyjamas, which betrayed a dark grey stain.

“No!” Sherlock closed his legs tight and twisted into the sofa.

John turned his head abruptly to the wall. His stomach dropped like a stone. He halted his hand in mid-stroke. His body was still barreling down the track of pleasure, but his mind was screaming for the emergency brakes.

“Shit!”

“S’okay, Sherlock.”

“Look, John. I want you to look. I’ve just never, well, never wanted anyone to look. Ever. I’m not used to it. Look, John, please.”

John turned back and looked at Sherlock’s damp crotch, then raised his eyes to Sherlock’s face and said as gently as he could,

“It’s not biologically possible, but I seem to get even harder knowing how wet you are. And, Christ, the way you smell, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded and relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the sofa.

John resumed his stroking. “Do you want to watch me come, Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

John stopped for more lubricant. As he squirted the cool gel in his palm, he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him and looked up, inquiringly.

Sherlock’s lips formed an almost-smile and he asked very quietly,

“I’m not too wet, am I, John?”

John smiled and shook his head. “I’m surprised you haven’t got it filed away in your precious brain already, but the fact is I go through much more of this,” he nodded at the lube, “than the average Alpha.”

“How remarkable. On both counts.”

John chuckled. “Sit back and enjoy the show, Sherlock.”

And show it was. As soon as John settled himself into a rhythm, he closed his eyes, threw his free hand across his bare chest, and went to work.

He rolled his hips and rocked back and forth. He squeezed his cock and ran his thumb around the sides and head and slit. He grunted. He groaned.

All the while he was imagining Sherlock beneath him, wet and ripe and utterly luscious and making the noises, well, the noises he was making.

John came with Sherlock’s name on his lips.

He opened his eyes on Sherlock’s crotch, which was still clothed but gratifyingly soaked, then he drew his eyes up to Sherlock’s.

“Thank you, John,” said Sherlock. “That was…”

Sherlock’s lips did funny things, but no more words were spoken.

John tried not to smirk. Rendering a genius speechless was no small feat.

Sherlock gave a theatrical nod in John’s direction. Then he stood and turned and strode with arms outstretched in that slow, uncertain, but not inelegant gait of the very drunk, towards hall.

John gasped when Sherlock missed the open threshold and slammed into the wall instead.

Sherlock mumbled something. It might have been ‘I’m all right’ or ‘sod off’ or ‘I’ll shoot you in the morning, damn you.’ But he’d quite literally bounced off the wall and then seemed to disappear from John’s view down the hall.

John stared at the scene left behind: the port, the glasses, the book, the wilted cock, the mess.

The utter, utter mess.

Then he face-planted into the sofa and gave himself over to the room, which had begun to spin violently.


	2. Cinderella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's version of Cinderella.

“Cinderella.”

John had assumed Sherlock had been knocking to quickly retrieve something from the bathroom, something to do with that experiment he’d been working on, tweezers, perhaps. He did not expect Sherlock to sit on the lidded toilet and start a conversation.

John turned off the water. The curtain was tightly drawn round the tub, and steam was thick in the air.

“What?” Maybe he had misheard.

“Cinderella,” repeated Sherlock.

It had been a week. Neither of them had mentioned that night, not even to complain about their raging hangovers the following day.

Days passed. One bled into the next.

John assumed Sherlock hadn’t remembered or wanted to forget. John wasn’t about to bring it up himself.

“Let’s skip the drudgery and go the ball, shall we?” said Sherlock.

“Why not?”

A bottle of lubricant appeared in the slit between the curtain and the tile wall. The remarkable thing was that John had, in fact, been thinking about tossing off in the shower only a few moments before Sherlock’s knock. Did Sherlock know that? God, he _was_ a prescient sod, wasn’t he?

John took the bottle.

“Through her godmother’s magic, Cinderella presented as an Omega for the first time, and that very night was ferried off to the Omegas’ ball in her carriage with livery. Of course, she was wearing her sumptuous gown.” John heard a page being turned. “The Alpha prince smelled her as soon as she arrived. She was, naturally, the ripest Omega in the room and he took her in his arms, and they danced. And as they danced, their lower halves pressed closer and closer. The music played on, but, without alteration to the clothing or the positions of their arms and hands, which were visible to all, Cinderella felt the folds of her dress being parted, parted, parted until at last something, something hard and solid, probed between her legs. She let it in, of course. Her nature told her to.”

John squirted lube on his palm.

“She didn’t know what it was, but as they danced, it stretched and filled her and gave her wave after wave after wave of crashing pleasure. She was swept away by the sensations and, naturally, forgot all about the time and her godmother’s edict.”

John was leaning, his shoulder against the tile, stroking himself.

“The hour grew late. At the first chime of midnight, Cinderella realised her folly. She wrenched herself from the prince’s embrace and fled. She ran like lightning, and by the last chime of twelve she had reached far edge of the palace lawn. Then she felt whatever was inside her fall out. She didn’t pause. She ran all the way home.”

John slowed his hand, waiting.

“The next day, there was a knock on the door of the house where Cinderella lived and toiled. A royal messenger announced that the prince would take for his bondmate the Omega who fit the enormous glass cock which he presented in a velvet-lined case.”

John laughed. “Christ, Sherlock.”

“Of course, the stepsisters tried, but they were forced to admit that it didn’t fit. The cock was much too large.”

“May I interject something about hygiene and the transmission of disease here?” asked John.

“No, you may not. It’s a fairy tale. Suspend your disbelief, Alpha.”

“Yes, Omega. Proceed.”

“Then Cinderella pushed her way forward and asked, demurely, politely, if she might give it a try. The stepsisters cackled and chided, but the messenger agreed. He kneeled before her and slipped the cock under her skirt…”

John hummed and resumed his stroking.

“…and smoothly, easily, perfectly into her wide, warm, very wide cunt.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fucked her right there, did he?”

“Yes. Her stepsisters made noises of disbelief and accused Cinderella of deception, so Cinderella hitched up her skirts. The messenger obliging pulled the monstrosity out and then pushed it back into Cinderella’s cunt while she moaned in ecstasy. Everyone stared and gasped as the messenger fucked her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” chanted John softly, imagining the scene. He stroked himself to the sound of his own humming and then prompted, “And the Alpha prince? Don’t tell me he let the messenger have all the fun!”

The book snapped shut and Sherlock said curtly, “I’ll be in my bedroom when (or if) you’re ready.”

The door opened, then shut. A blast of cool air slapped John.

“What?! Sherlock?! Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

John managed to get himself out of the bath and dried off and across the hall. He wrenched the door to Sherlock’s bedroom open, but his pique evaporated at the scene.

Sherlock, sitting on a pile of pillows at the head of the bed wearing a white, gauzy, ribbon and lace dressing gown, a garment that John had never seen before. The top half of the gown was drawn, and the sash was tied. The bottom half was spread, as were Sherlock’s legs, and he was holding something between his legs.

John stepped closer to the bed as Sherlock’s hand moved.

“Oh, oh, oh…”

“Let me?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded.

John put one knee on the bed. Sherlock released the handle.

John took it and pulled the object wholly out of Sherlock and studied it.

“That’s a cock,” he observed.

“Stating the obvious is not erotic, John—oh!”

“But shoving a huge glass penis into you is!” muttered John as he did just that. “So, the messenger fucked Cinderella just like this, hm?” The dildo made an obscene wet sound as John thrust it in and out. “Like this, like this, like this?”

“Just like that. Ugh.” Sherlock’s head rolled against the wall. He pressed his lips together.

“No, we talked about that. I want to hear you,” admonished John, his voice gentle but firm.

The bottom lip appeared. Sherlock eyed John through long lashes.

“I didn’t think you remembered.”

“I was being polite.”

“Cowardly, you mean.”

“That too,” admitted John, feeling his cock grow harder with every inhale of ripe Omega-scented air.

John soon found a rhythm with the dildo which, judging by Sherlock’s little mewls, suited. Then he let his eyes roam over the top of the dressing gown, which rose and fell with Sherlock’s ragged breaths. It slowly dawned on John that he’d seen this array of ribbons and beads and sequins in one of the illustrations of the burgundy-covered book.

“Cinderella,” said John. “This is the dress.”

“Yeah, a bit path—"

In a flash, John had slapped his hand flat over Sherlock’s mouth and leaned in close until Sherlock was pressed back flat and hard to the wall. He said in a threatening growl.

“Let it go, Sherlock. If only for here and for now and with me, let it go. I don’t care what you tell yourself inside your head, but I’ll have none of that nonsense with me. Can you do that? Because if you can’t, I can’t do this. Can you?”

Wide-eyed, Sherlock nodded.

John did not remove his hand, but he did soften his voice. “So, the Alpha prince?”

Sherlock gave a feeble shrug.

“Then I’ll have to finish the story.”

Sherlock nodded again, and John felt a timid smile grow against his palm and then the press of lips.

“Well,” John dropped his hand, “I suppose the Alpha prince in his palace noted the change in the air, the fragrance of his precious Omega being fucked, so, like a bloodhound, he tracked the delicious aroma all the way to Cinderella’s home. When he arrived, he ordered the messenger to remove the glass cock.”

John pulled the dildo out and tossed it on the bed behind them on the bed. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and made a gesture at his own hard cock. Sherlock replied simply,

“Yes.”

“And so the prince removed the glass cock and set Cinderella down on the floor and, with messengers and stepsisters and godmothers and whoever else watching, fucked her himself with his own Alpha cock.”

John slid his cock into Sherlock’s cunt. They groaned

Soon they were breathing together, open-mouthed, as John thrust.

“You feel so damn good, Sherlock,” panted John. “You’re so wet. It’s amazing.”

“You, too. So good. Please don’t stop.”

John looked down at Sherlock’s erect penis which was trapped between their bodies.

“Don’t worry about it,” whispered Sherlock. “I can come just from this.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. And I’m one of those rare Omegas who come inside and outside simultaneously.”

“Convenient.”

Sherlock snorted. “Only an Alpha would say that.” Then he sighed. “Oh, fuck, John, you’re thick. Wonderfully thick. And not too long.”

“And lot warmer than glass.”

“Indeed.”

John pushed most of the pillows away and settled himself more comfortably, nestled next to Sherlock, half-cradling, half-straddling him.

Then, just as he promised, John rolled his hips over and over and over.

Sherlock moaned. He also flailed, forcing John to restrain his arms and writhing legs. Then suddenly, Sherlock stopped flailing and collapsed, clinging to John like a second skin. The cycle of flailing and clinging repeated as John tried to find and keep the former rhythm of the glass cock.

Finally, John’s desire pooled.

“Ready, princess?”

“When you are.”

As John’s seed shot out of him into Sherlock, a wetness exploded against his lower belly.

John pulled out, and Sherlock collapsed upon him.

For a while, the room was silent, save for their breathing. Then Sherlock said in his every day, ordinary, slightly posh, slightly cool voice,

“You are right, John. It is a most satisfactory way of spending time during this period of inactivity, isolation, and uncertainty.”

John could scarcely believe it. There wasn’t a trace of strain or fatigue or, well, anything, in Sherlock’s tone. He might have been asking John to make him a cup of tea.

How he could be so unaffected?

But he wasn’t unaffected. Sherlock’s body was still trembling and still flushed pink and still damp with quickly cooling sweat.

This is him, thought John. This is the paradox. His transport, his mind. He’s an Omega detective who reads fairy tales.

In the end, John decided to hold Sherlock’s transport as tenderly as he dared, brushing his dry lips back and forth against the ridge of Sherlock’s shoulder, his right shoulder, in what he hoped was a soothing manner. Then he pulled back and nuzzled at the point of Sherlock’s neck under his chin.

Sherlock made no motion to leave John’s embrace, so John continued, moving to the left side of Sherlock’s neck. He was more careful as this was the side with Sherlock’s bonding gland, and John had no desire to touch it, even casually.

John’s eyes caught something on the floor beside the bed. He stared, at first uncomprehendingly and then with growing horror.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock! Your cock’s broken!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he slid out of John’s arms, flat onto the bed. He rolled away from John, still laughing.

John shook his head at the array of glass splinters and shards which covered the floor by the bed. “I suppose one of us kicked it off, and it just shattered. Did you hear it?”

“No,” Sherlock managed between giggles, “but my attention was otherwise occupied.”

Sherlock’s mirth did nothing to soothe John. He frowned, then blurted out. “I’ll replace it.”

Sherlock stilled then rolled back towards John and propped his head up on one bent arm. “Oh, really?” he asked with one raised eyebrow.

Despite everything, John blushed to his roots. “I mean,” he stammered, “I’ll give you money to purchase another.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, John. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“But, Sherlock, your fantasy!” protested John.

“Don’t worry, John, I’ve got others.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This may (or may not) be part of a fairy tale inspired series.


End file.
